Perpetual Smile

“I havnt talked to you in a while and wanted to say hi and stuff,” reads the text message. Ever since opening it, all I can think of are his hands around my throat.

* * * * *

Things have been absolutely bonkers on planet elizawhat. Aside from people from my past popping up like germs on a little kid’s hands, life has been packed with huge projects for clients with looming deadlines, a new niece to snuggle and love and gaze at while she sleeps, anxiety about Popi’s angioplasty that he had done today, a renewed sense of connection and even deeper love for Mike (who has been amazing beyond words through all of the shit hitting the fan), a slew of phone calls to schedule appointments with various doctors, more worry while we wait to see what the doctors say is going on with Dad, depression cycling in and out of me faster than fucking bunnies (and “fucking” is a verb here, heh), and a deep, unquenchable urge to play Sims and write even though I barely have time to sleep.

Suddenly, “bonkers” doesn’t seem quite appropriate; things are absolutely batshit.

* * * * *

Popi has been having chest pains, that go all the way down to his elbow. They found two clogs in the arteries of his heart, and did an angioplasty this afternoon to open up the arteries. They’re not sure why the arteries were clogged; it could be the chemo, it could be something that was already there before the cancer came along. More than likely it is the chemo, because a few weeks ago they did a full slew of tests and no clogs were detected.

I’m angry and afraid, to be perfectly blunt. I’m angry at the chemo, and afraid that it’s going to destroy him, piece by piece, before the cancer does. And then I saw him last night, and seeing him looking well and being with him made me think more positively. I look at my great-great-aunt Nan, who is in her nineties and was diagnosed with stage 3 cancer more than six years ago. She’s fine today, still kickin’, feisty for such an old lady. She makes her own clothing. She drinks wine. She cracks jokes, sometimes dirty ones. She’s got an uncanny strength for someone who looks so fragile. I admire her, deeply.

She is proof that Popi can make it through. It pisses me off when everyone starts discussing hospice. It’s like they’ve already given up. I don’t want to give up. Call me selfish, but I want to keep my Popi. I like to think that he can kick this thing’s ass, even if it’s already taken its toll in so many places: hip, spine, liver, lung. Fuck you, cancer. My Popi is stubborn and won’t go down so easily. I won’t let him.

* * * * *

My niece is a doll. She has Jaysa’s nose, Robbie’s face. Her hair is black and her head is full of it. Her eyes are big and constantly open, aware. She may not be able to see much yet, but she looks like she’s perfectly aware of what’s going on. Ciana Olivia Pelletier already has all of us wrapped around her tiny, long fingers.

* * * * *

It’s hard to talk about everything that is swirling through my mind. I don’t really even know where to start. I’m bone tired, thanks to a week full of nights spent staying up until the ass crack of dawn to get pieces of projects complete. I keep reminding myself that if I work hard now, in five to ten years I’ll be able to enjoy things. Sometimes I wish I could be a “normal” twenty-one-year-old, spending my late nights partying instead of working, falling asleep with veins full of thin, beer- or vodka-chased blood, then waking up to do it all over again the next day. But my partying stages were years ago, when being fifteen meant that I didn’t care much about my future. Now, I want that future, whatever it may be.

* * * * *

I know things have been pretty serious around here. I promise to try to make this place fun again. Thank you for listening.

I wonder what would happen if I started blogging every day?

Today I looked up mental health care providers in my area and wrote down three names and numbers that jumped out at me. I was mainly looking for pain management, depression, and mood disorder specialties — and of course someone who is a chick. I just can’t picture myself talking to a strange man. Then again, it sucks talking to a strange anyone… Unless that anyone happens to be a cat, because they pretend to be good listeners. I say pretend because everyone knows that cats pretend to sleep, pretend to love you, pretend to listen, all while they plot your death for serious.

What was I saying?

I spent today kind of floating. I have a LOT of work to do, which is probably why I mostly just procrastinated all day. It’s overwhelming. Tomorrow is the last day to upload all kinds of content to Latest Client’s WordPress site, so that they can be all wowed and amazed on Monday. Meanwhile, my muse is screaming for me to write, to work on Secondhand Mom or the short story I started last week. Stupid muse. When I want to write, she ditches me. When I can’t write, she yells at me to write.

I wanted to do a lot of things today, and now I can barely remember what I did do. (Uh, nothing.) I really wanted to get a lot done and go to Mike’s so that I could hang out with Robbie, Jaysa, and Ciana (my new niece), but since I didn’t get anything done…

Tomorrow I’m supposed to be going to Mike’s to watch the Colts/Jets game, so I’m panicking because that only gives me a few hours to get everything done that I need to get done. I think today can be filed under LAZY.

Wednesday, I hid.

I called out of work. I threw on some headphones. I buried myself under my comforter, afghan, and fleece blankie. I stayed like that for about an hour or so, falling in and out of sleep while listening to Lacuna Coil’s “Shallow Life” and Silversun Pickups’ “Swoon”, my current comfort albums.

I thought about going to the hospital. I thought that maybe I should talk to someone, someone who would get it and would be able to point me to a therapist who would get it even more. I imagined being handed a prescription to try, that might give me more energy and a little more sparkle inside.

I finally got up to go get dressed and eat so that I could go to the hospital, but I could barely eat and didn’t have the energy to get dressed. I crawled back into bed for another hour or so.

I know it was bad. I know that I need to get my ass into a therapist’s office. I know that I need to be tested for bipolar disorder, put on some medication, and need to go through pain management therapy. I know all of this, and still I shy away.

I make passing references to the people around me about how I’m feeling, but I don’t go all the way and say, “THIS IS BAD. IT’S REALLY BAD. I REALLY NEED HELP.” I don’t reach out. Instead, I keep it all to myself. I drop little hints, enough so that I can tell myself I said something, but not enough for anyone to get really concerned. Because, if I did truly say how bad it is, they might be very concerned.

It’s been a long time since I hid like I did on Wednesday.

In a way, it was just what I needed. I needed to regroup. And yet, on Thursday I felt the same as I did the day before. I felt drained, like I wasn’t really here, but at the same time it felt as if there were little teeny jumping beans inside of me and static fluff in my head. I barely sleep, I barely eat, and I feel like I’m barely making it through the days. Thoughts race through my head, about everything going on: about Popi, about Dad, about my stupid mystery autoimmune disease, about my relationship with Mike, about my new niece, about my clients, about my day job. On Thursday I felt like, at any moment, I was going to split into two. Or four. Or nineteen-thousand.

Today, I felt sort of normal — if normal means being on the verge of tears one minute and wanting to laugh like a maniac the next. At the moment, though, I feel okay.

It’s not just everything that’s going on; I go through these cycles all the time, for as long as I can remember. Last week, I thought about killing myself. For two or three days after, I felt high on life. And then I dropped again. I didn’t feel like dying, but I still dropped.

Part of me is ashamed. Part of me admonishes myself. “This was supposed to be over,” that part says. “We don’t want to go back to therapy. We were already there. Things should have been resolved then.” But the other part steps in and say, “That therapist didn’t do her job, and neither did the second therapist we saw about a year ago. We need to be tested for bipolar disorder. We need pain management skills. We need someone to talk to about everything.”

And the argument goes ’round and ’round, until I’m so tired of hearing these thoughts wrestling each other that I consider cracking open my head and throwing a grenade in there. (That’s a joke. You can laugh. I’m not actually going to grenade my brain.)

The truth is, my friends, that I NEED HELP. I am drowning, and with all of the external things going on as well as what is normally in my head, I’m having a really hard time staying afloat. I don’t want to die. I don’t want my mental illness to kill me. I don’t want to be the zombie I feel like. I’m tired of faking. I’m tired of being afraid to say anything to the people around me, partially because I’m afraid they have enough problems of their own and I don’t want to be yet another weight on their shoulders.

It’s also because I am partially ashamed of going back to therapy. I don’t want to. I tried it again, with Kitty Bhide, and she sucked. I know that if I just try a few different people, I’ll find the right person. But then I make the excuses of, “Well, I don’t have that kind of money,” and “It’s going to take forever to get in anywhere, and by the time I get in, I won’t feel this way anymore.” Even though that’s true — hi, that’s why I need to be tested for bipolar disorder — it’s still not a good enough excuse, because I still know that soon I will feel this way again.

I go through this, every time.

And it’s draining.

Would you stop playing the fucking DS? I screamed in my mind.

I stood with one arm on the top of the rocking chair Mike sat in. When he rocked, I reeled.

Stop fucking rocking.

I watched my grandfather put one hand over his chest while his left arm sat on the arm of his chair, tensed with pain and numbness.

Is he really still trying to watch TV?

Followed him with my eyes as he got up from his chair and sat down in the chair next to the dining room table.

Make it stop.

I watched my grandmother put the blood pressure cuff around my grandfather’s arm. Watched him fuss over the position of the wire from the blood pressure machine. Saw the pain in his eyes.

The blood pressure cuff tightened and the little machine measured. Even if I could see the numbers, I wouldn’t know what they meant. Had the doctors told Noni what good and bad blood pressure numbers are?

Mike shut off the DS. For a moment I wondered if his stony exterior was disguising the memories running through his head, memories of his little brother having a stroke.

She said something that meant, “You’re blood pressure is fine,” but the words themselves meant nothing to me. “I don’t think it’s your heart,” she said.

I didn’t relax. I was under water.

I wish the holidays were over already. Aside from being super stressed out about projects for clients, and worrying like crazy about Popi, I’m now barely going to see Mike on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

In years past, Toys R Us closed at like 6 on Christmas Eve and wasn’t open at all on Christmas Day. This year, they’re still closed on Christmas Day, but they’re open until 8 on Christmas Eve. Scratch that, as of today; Corporate sent an email at the last possible fucking minute and told everyone that they’d be open until 9.

What. The. Fuck.

Why does this matter?

Let me back up. Initially, Mike was scheduled until 8. He was trying to find someone to switch with so he could come over my house and have dinner with Noni, Popi, Biz Noni, Mom, Dad, Lauren, Aunt Wendy, Uncle Lonny, and I, but couldn’t, so he was going to see if he could just leave early because they will probably be dead. Now that they’re going to be open until 9, his boss asked him to stay until they close.

And he agreed.

Trust me when I say he already knows how pissed I am about this.

I understand why he’s doing it. Right now, he’s on great terms with his boss and the district manager, and he really wants to keep those relationships positive in case any higher positions open up. I get that. But still, I had a perfect picture of how Christmas would go, and now it’s just not going to be like that. I can’t help but be selfish and want to have things go my way. So much has not gone my way these last couple of years: my own health, my grandfather’s health, my living situation… I know I should just shut the fuck up and be grateful for what I’ve got. I know that. So many other people have it worse. It just feels like I’ve had a shitty line of luck lately and I guess I was depending on the holidays to be perfect so it could all be better.

To make things worse, I have a huge project deadline for the end of the month that can bleed into the first week of January because of some crazy server issues, but the deadline is making me nauseous because with all of the holiday shit going on, I have barely had time to work on it. Add a whole lot of lack of motivation, and I’m pretty fucked. Fuck you, depression. You’re such a greedy asshole.

So it’s no wonder that I’ve (sort of) picked up smoking again. I made sure not to buy myself a lighter tonight when I picked up a pack of Marlboro Lights. I’ve only had one so far. I don’t feel like I need one now, which is good, I guess. Right now, it’s either smoke or kill someone. Or run away to Florida.

It’s hard to get in the holiday spirit when so much shit is all fucked up. I miss being a little kid, and having only one worry this time of year: Santa not knowing that I really want a Gigapet, or whatever toy. (One year, I asked him every night before bed during this season to bring me a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup. No lie. My love of Reeses started early.)

This year, Santa, all I want is to feel better. Actually, scratch that. I just want everything to go back to the way it was in mid November, when everything was better. When Daddy didn’t lash out every five seconds because he is hurting so badly inside. When I would go to the Barnes and Noble Cafe every afternoon to write with a Pumpkin Spice Latte at my side. When we looked forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas, not a care in the world. When I thought Popi might just have arthritis or a sciatic nerve problem, or something FIXABLE, dammit.

Right now, it feels like nothing in my life is fixable. I feel like I have no friends. I feel like I can’t rant too much to Mike because he is already stressed out enough and I know that by whining that he has to work late tomorrow night, I’m only making it worse. I feel like I have to walk on eggshells around my whole family, because I don’t want to say out loud that shit, I don’t believe in god so I have no fucking clue where my grandfather is going to go when he dies.

Fuck.

There it is, guys. There it fucking is.

I am not doing too well.

I’ve spent the last two weeks in a fog, kind of just moving through the days. I’ve been a little better today but I can’t shake the feeling that this is only the eye of the storm.

In high school, the best parts of my days in shop (I went to a technical high school and spent my four years in Culinary Arts) were the mornings and afternoons. First thing in the morning, I would come in and fill a little bowl with chocolate chip cookie dough as it was being made by Chef I. He got so used to me snitching cookie dough that at one point he started having a bowl ready for me. (And then Chef Z and later Chef M tried to shut me down, but that’s another post for another day.)

After a day of cooking, we would eat together. If you worked on Faculty Range, in Bake Shop, or in the Dining Room, you got to eat the good stuff (as opposed to being on Cafeteria side, where you made lunch for the whole student body). My favorite thing to eat for lunch was a few slices of bread with butter and a big bowl of sauce. (And to think I stayed a size 3-5 throughout my high school career!)

I haven’t had homemade bread since.

This afternoon, while wandering around on Lifehacker at work, I found a post on making fresh-baked bread quickly and easily. I scribbled down the recipe — 6 cups of water, 3 tablespoons of salt, 3 tablespoons of yeast, and 13 cups of flour — on a Post-It and stuck it in my purse.

As soon as I got home, I set to it.

I split the recipe in half, since the Lifehacker post is for a one- to two-week supply of bread that you ideally bake a loaf every day. I dissolved 1 1/2 tbsp of yeast and 1 1/2 tbsp of salt in 3 cups of hot water (I remembered from Culinary that the hot water makes the difference).

Then I stirred in 6 1/2 cups of flour.

After the dough started to come together, I stripped off my rings and kneaded the dough with my hands. The scent of it was intoxicating.

When it reached the right consistency, I patted it into a neat little ball, scraped dough off of my fingers, and went to the sink to wash my hands. I didn’t get far before the urge to try some of the dough came over me. I pulled a little glob off of my left hand and popped it into my mouth. I knew instantly that I hadn’t fucked up the recipe; it had the perfect bread dough taste, with just the right amount of salt. I scraped as much dough off of my hands as I could and ate it before washing them, it was that good.

Then I put a towel over the bowl the way Noni always did when I watched her make dough and set it to rise.

If all goes well, I’ll have a nice hot slice of homemade bread with butter tomorrow morning before work with Noni, Popi, and Biz Noni. I might even put some grape jelly on it. My mouth just waters thinking about it, and my heart warms just a little bit.

That gaping hole is still there, but with little things like hot fresh bread and cards from my good friends online and off, it is a little less raw.

I want to call Mike and wake his ass up RIGHT NOW even though he has a migraine and went to bed hours ago just so that I can drag him to Holy Land with me so I can take pictures. In the dark. With meth addicts and crackheads and alcoholics.

It’s a good thing I blogged this first; I don’t think things through very well.

I knew Mike was superstitious about Game Day, but I never knew just how bad it was! The following Facebook IM transcript depicts devout superstition. Reader beware, you’re in for a scare!

Elizabeth: can i wear a jersey? <3<3

Mike: um no

Elizabeth: WHAT

Mike: i only have that one manning jersey

Elizabeth: you always wear two you liar

Mike: no i wear the the shirt robbie gave to me and my long white sleeve and the manning

Elizabeth: you wear two jerseys
and that shirt

Mike: no i do not [know] what your talking about

Elizabeth: of course you don't - it's because you're LYING because you don't want me to wear it!

Mike: white long sleeve,grey soupcan shirt and the the manning

Elizabeth: plus the sanders or something
and i have a big blister on my heel ):

Mike: i cant wear the sanders cause he is out for season and if i wear it brings bad luck

Elizabeth: but you've BEEN wearing it!!

Mike: my unitas only gets worn when we play baltimore

Elizabeth: i make fun of you EVERY. TIME. because it's funny that you wear all of those clothes!

Mike: i havent wore my sanders since octobers injury
this is my routine and it works ok so back off

Elizabeth: (snort)
I'm making fun of you on Twitter*

Mike: your an asshole brat (snort) right back

Elizabeth: hahaha no, i’m awesome

Mike: what ever i am superstious with the colts i dont care what anyone says including you

Elizabeth: i so love you

---

*No actual harming of the Michael was done

that you came over that night after working a long ass shift because I needed you, even though you didn’t know why.

when you kiss my forehead or the tip of my nose.

the way you can make me smile, even when there is nothing to smile about.

the way you laugh when you’ve said something funny.

how you will do things like run errands, shop for groceries, and clean the house for your mom, without so much as one complaint.

how good you are with kids. You will be an awesome uncle to Robbie’s daughter, and an awesome father when the time comes.

the way you treat my family, with kindness and respect. You will be the best -in-law ever known to this planet.

that you can play any video game, beat it within a few days, and then play it again just for the Xbox Achievements.

your imagination. You should seriously write a book or screenplay.

your sense of humor and hilarious rants. Start a blog. Please. So I can pimp your awesomeness off to my bloggy friends.

when you hold me close, without saying any words.

that you refuse to shave your beard or trim your hair during the NFL season, because it will bring bad luck to our team.

that you wear the same uniform every game day, because if you don’t, it will bring back luck to our team.

the awesome cheesecake you make at random.

the mean NY Strip that you made a few months ago. I’m still craving it.

how good you are with your little brother.

the endless love and support that you give me, no matter what I choose to do or how many times I change my mind.

that you gave me such a hard time when we first started dating; you are worth every time I banged my head into the wall with frustration.

your random food cravings, both when they complement my random cravings and when they are the complete opposite of what I want.

your taste in music.

that you retain so much knowledge and share it with me, whether I care or not. It’s provided me a never ending learning opportunity.

the way you stubbornly refuse to be anything but who you are, and don’t care what people think.

when you hold my hand while driving.

when you tell me I am your life. You’re mine, too.

how you tell me over and over that you love me.

I love you, bearded man.

(Stolen from Britt. I’m going to do as many of these as possible this weekend.)

I slipped out the door and broke into the cold November air. I saw him, sitting in the Rav4 across the street. He sat perfectly still, smoking a cigarette and staring into the intersecting street ahead. For a moment I watched him, then forced myself to take the three short steps down and to walk across the street. As I walked around the front of the truck, I looked down at the ground, avoiding his eyes for fear of breaking down before I could even get the words out.

I slid into the truck and closed the passenger door behind me.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. “Is it Biz Noni?”

“No,” I said.

“Popi?”

I nodded, and the tears started sliding down my cheeks. I barely felt them. I thought I had exhausted my tear ducts but it appeared there was an unlimited supply.

“What is it?” He asked. Then: “Cancer?”

I nodded and lost it. I curled up in the seat and repeated what I had been told just hours earlier: “Liver. Lung. Third stage. Maybe bone.” Between sobs, I told him that the CAT-SCAN had shown a spot on his liver and a shadow on his lung. The doctors at the VA hospital were hoping that the shadow on his lung was just scar tissue from when he had pneumonia years ago, but had told my grandmother that it’s most likely cancer.

Noni and Popi found out Friday. Mom told Lauren and I Saturday night.

An MRI yesterday showed that the cancer is also in most of his spine, but not in the spinal cord. Noni said the PET-SCAN they did today will show everything and that they should get the results tomorrow.

I went to visit him earlier tonight with Mom and Dad. He looked good, and he was cracking jokes as usual, so there’s that. They were giving him morphine for the pain in his hip and legs, and are going to do physical therapy on his leg so that he can get around better when he comes home.

He’s probably not coming home until next week.

I can’t imagine Thanksgiving without him.

I can’t really wrap my head around the whole thing at all.